Sordid Gaze
by Sorrel
Summary: Life through the eyes of one who has seen too much... mostly character rambling, with a touch of romance at the end. Duo POV.


**Sordid Gaze.**

****

   Hi.  My name is Aji no Tengoku.  Don't know me?  That's okay.  Very few do.  I am a spy, after all.  If you know who I am, I'm one toasted cookie.

   Didn't expect that, did you?  Actually, I'm more than just a spy.  I'm three things, really.  A spy, an assassin, and a prostitute.  In that order.

   A few of my past and current customers know that I'm a prostitute.  Those that are still alive, anyway.  Not many people who come in contact with me stay alive that long. And at least a hundred of those souls rotting in hell know I'm an assassin.  But only my boss knows I'm a spy.

   I'm not gonna give his name here.  If this happens to fall into the wrong hands, I'll die, but that doesn't matter much.  I've been waiting for death for a long time.  But I want to keep him safe.  I love the cold-blooded bastard, and I'm not gonna be the reason why he dies after surviving this long.

   I bet you never would have figured it, would ya?  I mean, me and him?  It would never work outside of my daydreams, even if he did care about my existence in something other than a purely professional manner.  I don't know if I'm even a living, breathing human being to him, or if he all he sees when he looks at me is a robot, a killing machine.  It doesn't matter.  All he worries about is the safety of his best spy- I'm kinda reckless sometimes, I guess he has a right to worry- while I want so much more.  But hell, even I know that it could never work, and I'm the one wearing rose-colored glasses where he's concerned.  We've been through way too much of the same shit, and it's made both of us too hardened and cynical for each other.  But there ya go.  There's no accounting for taste, is there?

   Back to my job, a slightly less depressing topic.  I am a spy, as I mentioned, and I do various and sundry jobs under that heading.  But I'll come back to that.

   I am an assassin, and a prostitute.  Well, the two jobs tend to blur together a lot of times.  But that's just my style of killing.  I go for slightly more subtle methods.

   Basically, what I do is this.  My boss gives me a name, and the rest is up to me.  I don't think that he knows how, exactly, I eliminate the targets, and I don't intend for him to find out.  I'm mismatched enough for him as it is, but to add death interlinked with sex into that… well, I just don't want him to know how sordid I really am.

   Anyway, the guy is usually some terrorist who wants to restart war, but when I find him he's really just some poor fuck with dreams of grandeur that is firmly stuck under his wife's thumb.  So I befriend him, take him out and get him drunk, then seduce him.  When he's revved and ready to go, I fuck him and kill him.  Or I skip the befriending and just pick the guy up at a bar.  Either way, it's not really that hard to knock the fuckers off.

   Of course, that's not my only method of killing.  I can use more traditional methods: knives, guns, poison, a black mamba in the drain, wearing black clothes and a ski mask, the whole enchilada.  But that's boring, it really is.  I like to get sex out of the bargain.  And that brings me to my job as a prostitute.

   I don't really need the extra money that I get from selling sex.  My boss may be a cold-hearted bastard, but he pays very well.  But I enjoy the sex, and I enjoy the extra cash.

   Lemme let you in on a little secret: bars are gold mines.  Well, they are if you do what I do: stroll in and find a rich drunk, then pick him up and give him his money's worth.  And rich drunks are not hard to find- no matter how hard they try to hide it, they still have a certain class to them that shows.  And it's not hard to pick them up, because the only reason rich people go into bars is to get a taste of the illicit, the low-class.  Otherwise, why not just drink the fine alcohol they keep in their fancy homes?

   They want low-class, I give them low-class.  I'm good at low-class.  I have what most people consider a perfect body and the face of an angel with lips made for sin, and I use what I've got to good advantage.  Strategic application of the right makeup and fabric in the right places, and _voila! _ Customers coming out of my ears.  I'm very selective, though.  And with very good reason.  Some of the motherfuckers out there get their jollies from causing as much pain as possible, and I am no masochist, despite what some might say.  A little pain is kinky, a lot of it is agony.

   No, I don't think that my choice of professions makes me a masochist.  I'm just being logical.  If I have the skills, why not use them?

   And trust me, I have the skills.  And I'm not just talking about the killing, either, though I am good at death.   I'm a good prostitute, too: you always get your money's worth with me.  Unless, of course, I kill you.

   That's a perk to my job, too.  Bumping the sods off is easier than breathing for me, and I get paid twice: once by my boss for killing them, and once by the customer for the sex.

   You find my attitude overly cynical and cold-blooded? Tough.  It's who I am, and I won't apologize for being who and what I am.

   But to get back on track: I enjoy sex.  I'd wager any amount of money that your average prostitute doesn't, but I do.  I almost never get any sadists in my bed, simply because I am as selective as I am, but if I ever screw up and end up with one, the motherfucker would be dead before he could lay a finger on me.  Not that I'm bragging, just simple fact.  I'm one of the best.  But anyway, I consider the sex a perk rather than a downside.

   Of course, none of them know my real name.  I don't even think I _have_ a real name, at least not one that I can remember.  So I call myself Aji no Tengoku, or Taste of Heaven.  Ironic name, it is, since that's exactly what I deliver to my customers.  A taste of heaven.

   Or hell, depending on the customer.  In fact, I bet _those_ sort of customers are still wondering what the hell hit them.  Or who, exactly, strangled them with those harmless-seeming whips or slit their throat with that erotic little knife.  Some of them are even wondering if the heretofore-unseen poison needles in my mouth were really vampire fangs.

   But whatever the method, I got the job done, quickly, cleanly, and painlessly, if I could.  I often hear on the news that one of _those_ sort of former customers died happily in their sleep at the age of whatever.  And I have to laugh, because I can personally attest that they sure as hell weren't asleep when they left this world for the next one, but they sure as hell died happy.  In fact, _those_ sort of customers make up the few people on God's green earth that have ever come and gone at the same time.

   As you can guess, I'm well acquainted with death in every one of its destructive and insidious guises.  Hell, I've dealt enough of it in my lifetime to be death itself.  But again, it's who I am, and I refuse to apologize for being what I am if you can't take the truth.  But don't get me wrong, there aren't many kills that I regret, an those are the ones that never should have happened.

   Of course, I'm talented enough at the game of denial to push those casualties away to a tiny corner of my mind, where they never happened.  I disregard them with the old saying, "Shit happens."  Death follows me wherever I go, and those deaths are unavoidable.  I _am_ an assassin, after all.

   And there you see my incredible rationalization skills.  Aren't I good at that?

   But seriously, I have no illusions that I'll be going to heaven and have the whole angelic ensemble: harp, wings, halo, and all.  No, they probably have a special place of honor reserved for me in hell, where I will fit in perfectly with my little forked tail and pitchfork.  I think I will make a damn good demon with my track record.

   But I digress.  I was meaning to tell all about the other third of my professional life, the part where I'm a spy.  I can't really give you details as to the jobs I do, but I can tell you this: I do everything from stakeouts to months-long, high-security mole jobs.  But that's a far as I can tell you about that, but… I can tell you other things, little things.

   Well, there are two ways of looking at the job of a spy: the perks, and the downsides.  But first the perks.

   Spies have really cool toys.  I know that sounds a little juvenile, but it's the gospel truth.  I mean, it's nothing compared to what I got to play with during the war, but still, it's some pretty sweet weaponry.  Nice, smooth firing action, light to the hand, ultra-sensitive trigger system…. I guess I'm a little _too_ into my really cool toys.  But hey, ya gotta enjoy life's little pleasures when you find them.

   Well, almost everyone has an inner kid that likes to dress up in costumes and play make-believe.  Well, some parts of my job are just one long game of make-believe, only terrifyingly real.

   That's a mingled perk and downside, the reality of the situation, the danger of it.  On one hand, your very existence is threatened at all times, which I don't really worry about.  There's nothing tangible that holds me to this world, only the cobweb fabric of dreams.  So I'm a little reckless; what of it?  It makes me good at what I do.  But for adrenaline junkies like me, all that danger is a definite perk, cuz ya got the adrenaline high that you get off the danger.  And trust me on this, sex is never as good as when you're riding a good adrenaline high.  So after each mission is complete, I usually go to a bar and grab a nice hunk of meat to celebrate with, occasionally even free of charge.  Mmm, I have some good memories of that.

   Well, time for the downsides.  And there are plenty of them, you better believe it.  To be put bluntly, the job sucks worse than a two-dollar whore. The only reason I've stuck with it this long is because what the hell else am I good for?

   You're in danger constantly.  All it takes is one mistake, one whisper of your name, and you're gone.  No matter how good you are, someone is always better, and they're the ones that'll get ya.  You gotta be cautious to the point of paranoia about your name, and alert at all hours of the day, even when you are asleep, which is no mean feat, if you want to stay alive.  I know because I've almost gotten caught more times than I can count.  Oftentimes, reflexes honed by being a Mobile Suit pilot are the only things that save my ass.  Other times, well, my opponent is dumber than a box of rocks, and sheer dumb luck was the only thing that got him near me.

   Anyone who tells you that being a spy is glamorous work is bullshitting you.  Most of it is extremely boring scut work, with some moments of high danger.  Those are fun.  But the rest of it…  Just take my word for it- endless rounds of surveillance and research are not what I'd call enjoyable.

   It's fun to be the best.  And I am the best.  That's not bragging; that's the flat truth.  You can ask my boss, except… wait, you'll never see him.  Nevermind.  But the trick is standing out so much that you blend in.  It takes quite a bit of talent, that.

   Yeah, well, that's about all I can tell you, because the rest of the stuff I know has high-security clearance.  So, what's left to talk about in my life?  Not a whole bloody lot.  My past perhaps?  Nah.  I don't really have much of a past.  Well, I don't have much of one that I've ever told anybody, and I'm not about to start being candid about it now.  All you need to know is that my life has been mostly shit with a few lucky breaks.

   Don't feel sorry for me.  I don't need or want your pity.  Not everything in my life has been roses and sunshine, but it's not that bad.  I made my choices, and if I could go back and do it all over I probably wouldn't change anything.  All I ever really wanted in life I eventually got, with one exception.  My boss.

   I can't give a name, or an appearance, on the off chance that this falls into the wrong hands.  I don't really care if I die- I've been waiting for death for a long time and I have a nice, toasty warm home waiting for me- but if he dies because of me…  I can't let that happen.

   He doesn't know I love him, of course.  It's not a chance I plan on taking.  Knowing him, he'll panic and not let me into his presence ever again.  Hell, he'd do that if I so much as acted nice towards him.

   So I torture him.  Not literally, of course, I could never deliberately hurt him, but I take pains to annoy the hell out of him.  If I can't have his love, then I'll damn well at least have his attention.  I'm good at getting it, too, and while I'm busy annoying him, I take advantage of his distraction to leave little presents where he won't find them for days, so he won't link them to me.  He thinks they're all from the most persistent of his female admirers, and when he comes complaining to me about it, I just smile secretively and tell him to ignore them.

   God, I love him.  And he is so blind not to have seen the truth.  He means everything to me, but I can never be anything but a tool to him.  And I've got to stop thinking about him, because my heart bleeds a little bit more every time I do.

   So I'll wind this up and go lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling- it's how I spend my free time, you know.  At least during the day.  When night cloaks the city, I have no free time.  People to kill, information to gather, and a great big jolly fuckfest for all, and profitable for me.  I leave the house every night at seven and don't get back till four in the morning.  One of these days the lack of real sleep is going to kill me if something else doesn't first.

   So I gotta go now and rest up for a long, hard night at the bar.  It's four in the afternoon, so if I'm lucky I'll get an hour-long nap before I have to start getting ready.  That's assuming I can actually sleep, which just does not happen very often anymore.

   Oh, and one more thing.  When I die, this goes to my boss.  Everybody dies, and so will I, but my old friend will claim me soon.  I've cheated him for too long for him to be merciful now.  So if my boss actually reads this, I have something to say.

   Ai shiteru, koibito.

****

   Heero closed Duo's diary and gently placed it back on the shelf where it had been with shaking hands.  He went to stand by the window, staring blankly at the stars he saw through his own reflection.

   But that was how he saw everything, he thought fuzzily.  Through a reflection of himself.  You can't see the world through a mirror, he'd heard it before, but only now was he beginning to understand what it meant.

   "God," he whispered hoarsely, his mind going back to the pages of the little black diary where Duo had poured his very heart and soul for all to read.  "I never knew."

   Then he looked outward again, to the stars, knowing that Duo was out there somewhere, sliding onto a sticky barstool beside his next potential customer, and who could refuse Duo when he offered himself?  If only…

   "Ai shiteru, Duo.  I love you too, baby.  I love you too."


End file.
